


Fireworks

by WinterTheWriter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, Femlock, First Kiss, Fluff, Jealous!Sherlock, New Year's Eve, No Smut, Requited Love, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 20:43:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5600206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterTheWriter/pseuds/WinterTheWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Parties are awful only because other people show up to them. Parties are not awful only because Joan is there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fireworks

**Author's Note:**

> Commission for my NYE sale!! Hope y'all enjoy. All commission info is on my page, please message me with any questions.

“This is moronic, and brightly colored, and loud,” Sherlock grumbles, glaring menacingly at the sparkled 2016 glasses Joan had given her to wear earlier. She’s sat on the couch with her long legs up on the coffee table (next to said awful glasses) and her arms crossed over her chest. “I don’t know what I’ve done to make you hate me so much, Joan, but truly there are far easier and more efficient ways to assure I die a slow and painful death.” 

“You’re so cheerful,” Joan drawls, barely casting a single glance at Sherlock as she putters around the kitchen, the smell of cookies and drinks wafting through the flat. “It’s a party, Sherlock. Just a party. All you have to do is sit there, have a few drinks, and try not to offend anyone.” 

“You don’t bake.”

“Pardon?”

“You. Don’t. Bake,” Sherlock punctuates, finishing the declaration with a loud exhale. “Why are there cookies if you don’t bake?”

“Believe it or not, Sherlock,” she can practically hear the smile in Joan’s voice and pointedly ignores the way her stomach flips at the thought, “there are more people in the world than just you and me. More people in this building, in fact. Mrs. Hudson baked them.” The sound of cookie against tray followed by the soft crumble of a bite into warm dough, and then Joan moans happily. Sherlock grimaces (not even a little bit in disgust) and crosses her legs on the coffee table. “Bloody delicious, these are. The guests will love them,” Joan says as she chews.

Sherlock just mutters something about not talking with your mouth full, the statement going unheard (or simply un-replied to) before the two lapse back into silence. In truth, Sherlock doesn’t hate parties. How can she, with the radiant, almost floating way Joan moves through them as she mingles with the guests, lighting up the street with that thin-lipped grin of hers, eyes glittering even in the dimness of the flat, her voice gravelly and soothing Sherlock like --- ….no, Sherlock doesn’t hate parties. What she does hate, however, is how parties are attended by /other people./ She doesn’t understand it. The two of them could have a party any time Joan wished, but she insists upon invited their “friends” to join them and ruin it all.

But Joan had insisted on this one. After a case took them through Christmas (another thing Sherlock hated – she’s an atheist, dammit, and /goodness/ the decorations are tacky, and she never knows what gifts to get…), leaving the two of them exhausted and very much in need of alone time (even from each other), this is the only party they’ve had all year. And Joan asked with a half-smile curving those pink lips, full cheeks pink with the heat of her shower and clad only in her robe. Sherlock was powerless to say no. 

That doesn’t mean she can’t complain about it.

The worst part is the party hasn’t even started yet. Sherlock glances at the clock – 9:26PM, four minutes to go – and sighs loudly enough that Joan pops her head into the sitting room with a frown. “If you’re not going to help me, at least go unlock the door so we don’t have to run back and forth. Do /something/ useful other than sulking.” 

“I am not /sulking/,” Sherlock hisses, running her fingers through her black curls flippantly. Joan only glares at her with her “Captain Glare” in reply and ducks back into the kitchen. Sherlock sighs again, louder for effect, and stands up from her seat to do as she was told. 

She very much doesn’t think about the thrill that glare of Joan’s sends down her spine.

~

At first, the party isn’t that bad. Molly and Lestrade come first (recently engaged, Molly’s pregnant but doesn’t know it yet, best give her apple juice instead) and so all that Sherlock has to do is step back and let Joan do the talking, other than the initial hello’s and hugs and how are you’s. Sherlock’s hopes rise; all joking aside, she /does/ actually like Molly and Lestrade, and if they are the only guests, perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad.

But no. Of course not. Why would anything be that tolerable? 

Stamford comes next, all jolly and red-faced (ran here, lost his job, his boyfriend is cheating on him), and all of Sherlock’s hopes plummet to the ground. It’s not that there’s anything /wrong/ with Stamford, but he’s so insufferably smug about whatever he thinks is going on between Joan and her like he’s their Lesbian God-Father. No matter how many times Sherlock snarls out that she and Joan are friends and /only/ friends to him, that smug smile stays put. 

Sherlock can only imagine how smug he’d be if (once) Joan and her /actually/ got together. She takes very little comfort in the fact that the possibility of that happening is so remarkably slim. 

Eight more horrific guests filtered in but Sherlock truly doesn’t care enough to learn their identities. Army buddies and fellow doctors, mostly, all /Joan’s/ friends. Joan, who hasn’t said a word to Sherlock after Stamford came. Joan, who hasn’t even been on the same /side of the room/ as Sherlock since her friends arrived. Joan…who looks happier than Sherlock’s seen her in months.

Sherlock’s heart clenches at the deduction (always one more than she intended), and that’s when she finds the champagne. Only an hour and a half until midnight.

~

Sherlock is on her second glass of champagne and her third mental list of reasons why she’s going to jump off Bart’s again. It’s almost deafeningly loud – from the boisterous laughter of Joan’s army friends to the doctors all debating who-knows-what in the corner to the awful music Joan had insisted on playing and, finally, to the telly blasting a live report on the ball-drop and countdown, Sherlock is very much at her wit’s end. Her knuckles are white around the stem of her glass, lips pursed and eyes narrowed as she glares at the floor. 

She knows if she looks up she’ll see one of Joan’s soldiers with an arm around her waist and a filthy look in his eye. Worse than that, she’ll see Joan /not/ moving away, not finding it at all uncomfortable. As if that brute of a man deserved Joan in any way, shape, or form. 

A voice that sounds awfully like Mycroft’s tells her that she doesn’t exactly deserve Joan either, and Sherlock hisses at it to shut up. 

She knows full well she doesn’t deserve Joan’s affections, but unlike that – that /animal/, she’s willing to do whatever it takes to change that. Sherlock had long since made peace with her feelings for her best friend, even if she’s determined to never acknowledge them, and she knows that if she were given the chance, Sherlock would move the tides for Joan Watson. 

A soft “ahem” jerks Sherlock from her reverie and she snaps her head up, mouth open in preparation to eviscerate whoever dared interrupt her thoughts. But it’s Joan, her arms crossed genially and her eyes crinkled in that way they do when she’s amused. “Not sure what our carpet did to deserve that glare, but I’m worried for its safety.”

Sherlock scoffs, desperately hoping the dim lighting of the flat hides her blush. “Don’t be preposterous. Carpets are completely non-sentient and inanimate, and I am insulting by the implication that you think I’d actually be /angry/ at a –,”

“Sherlock.”

“What?”

“It was a ruddy joke, shut up,” Joan laughs, shaking her head. Sherlock shuts her mouth with an audible click and averts her eyes, trying her best to look pompous. 

“I knew that.”

“Of course you did.”

“….Can I help you? Don’t you have a…gorilla to ride?” Sherlock nods towards aforementioned gorilla-man when Joan looks confused.

“Edward? He’s a /body-builder/, Sherlock.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Right. Well, no, actually. Edward is very happily married. He’s just a bit of a flirt when he gets a couple drinks in him.”

“Or in you,” Sherlock mumbles, huffing when Joan slaps her arm. 

“Hush up. I came here because I wanted to talk to /you/, not him.”

“Why?”

“Because you look miserable, and I do genuinely care about you.” There’s a new softness in Joan’s voice that makes Sherlock’s stomach flutter and her pulse increase, and she licks her lips nervously as she meets her friend’s eyes.

“I’m…fine,” Sherlock replies, all bite gone from her tone. Joan smirks and raises an eyebrow, resting a heavy hand on Sherlock’s own hand, still clutching the stem of the glass.

“Now let’s try the truth this time, mm? If it’s too much for you, Sherlock, you can go to your room or to Bart’s or wherever. You put in an effort – that’s enough for me.” It’s tempting, /so/ tempting to agree readily and excuse herself, but Sherlock can see the disappointment hidden away in Joan’s eyes. She /wants/ her here. Really, truly wants her around, and Sherlock can’t just ignore that. 

“Honestly, Joan. It’s just…loud.” The excuse sounds lame to both of them and Sherlock knows this, so she sighs and tries again. “I…trust me, you don’t want to know.” Christ, what’s she doing?

“What do you mean, I don’t want to know? And don’t say it’s self-explanatory, you bloody well know what I meant,” Joan chides, thumb brushing over Sherlock’s knuckles (she almost drops the glass in shock). 

“I --,” she starts.

A loud, drunken friend of Joan’s seems to materialize next to her, throwing a jovial arm over her shoulders. “JOAN-Y!” He shrills, the weight of his body nearly toppling her. “I fuckin’, I…I fuckin’ missed ya, you know? We…th….you’re the pretty,” he hiccups, “war person.”

Joan laughs good-naturedly but Sherlock sees the annoyed glint in her eyes. When she speaks, there’s a dangerous undertone that makes Sherlock shudder. “Jonathan, I’m kind of in the middle of something,” she says, pushing him off of her. Jonathan whines, shoving her gently, but he ultimately grins and lumbers off to go wreak havoc somewhere else.

Sherlock should’ve wrapped the furniture in plastic.

“Sorry about that,” Joan chuckles, cracking her knuckles as she moves closer to Sherlock again. “What were you saying?”

In the background, someone shouts that there’s five minutes until midnight. How time flies when you’re consumed with jealous rage.

“Joan, it truly isn’t something you want to hear,” Sherlock says, shifting her weight uncomfortably. 

“Oh, stuff it. Let me decide that for myself. Whatever it is seems to be really bothering you, and it is my job – and my privilege – as your best friend to help.” The words warm Sherlock’s heart and she fights a smile by sipping champagne. 

Perhaps it is time to tell her. The New Year is supposed to be a time for change, for taking chances. If she can’t do it now, when can she?

Resolved, Sherlock nods, clearing her throat a couple times. “Joan, you know I’m not good with…enunciating my emotions,” Joan nods in agreement, “but as of late I’m finding it more difficult to keep them…at bay.” There’s a strange look in Joan’s eyes but she doesn’t say anything, so Sherlock forges on. “And these…emotions…tend to make themselves known at the most inopportune of times, and often they manifest themselves in inconvenient and sometimes hostile ways. For example, that brute of a man who is /happily married/ became the object of my rage from just the simple action of touching you.”

Joan’s closer now, much closer, and Sherlock stops talking just to stare. In the background, people count back from 30. 

“Keep talking,” Joan rasps.

Sherlock’s mouth opens and closes for a moment before she continues. “But they’re good emotions. At least I think they are. People say they are. They give me odd urges and thoughts, but…”

“10, 9, 8…,” the crowd chants.

“I think they’re good. When they’re for you, Joan, they’re good.”

“7, 6, 5…,”

“So if you’ll have me, Joan, if you want, if you’re willing, I’d really very much…”

“4, 3, 2…”

Whatever Sherlock was going to say is gone, lost forever in the depths of her mind, because Joan yanks Sherlock down with all the force she has, champagne glass clattering to the ground, and presses their lips together in a firm kiss that holds all the words Sherlock can never say and has always wanted to hear.

And there are fireworks.


End file.
